


Comfort Food

by BurningTea



Series: Season 11 fic [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel in the Bunker, Coda, Episode: s11e03 The Bad Seed, I can't help myself, M/M, Season 11, another one, more cooking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-28
Updated: 2015-10-28
Packaged: 2018-04-28 16:25:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5097323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BurningTea/pseuds/BurningTea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Dean refuses to let Castiel heal him, the angel feels the need to do something to care for his charge. He tries cooking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Comfort Food

The knife feels small and fragile in his hand, but Castiel wields it carefully. He can do that, now. When he was Steve, when he was human, he was often clumsy and lacking in grace. That was the problem, of course. The Grace. Before he lost his Grace, had it taken from him, Castiel hadn’t understood how Grace altered the edges of things, how it filled the gaps in the world around him, made it smooth and connected and whole. Without Grace, those edges had become ragged and colorless, and he had tripped on them.

Still, as Steve he learned a number of useful things. He learned how to cook, for one thing. At least, he learned how to heat some things up, and that people often liked to have cheese added.

He must have learned enough to do this one thing for Dean, for Sam. 

He feels Sam approach from elsewhere in the bunker, the shape and size of him rippling through the airspace. 

“Hey, Cas,” Sam says, stepping down into the kitchen and pausing. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?” Castiel asks.

He isn’t being facetious, no matter that Sam will likely take it that way. He would genuinely like to know what this looks like. He lost track a long time ago of the way he must look to others, and before that his belief in his appearance was etched in diamond lines into his being: he was an angel and he was glorious, awe-inspiring and terrifying. Now, he’s chopping vegetables in an outdated kitchen, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his feet bare. He wonders if there is any awe left when people look at him, the thought muddied yellow in his mind.

“You don’t have to do that, you know,” Sam says, avoiding Cas’ question. Perhaps he took it as rhetorical. “Dean will cook something when he gets up, or we’ll go out.”

“I know,” Castiel says. “I want to.”

Sam’s confusion is almost palpable, but he moves closer and opens the fridge door, apparently deciding to let Castiel cook if he wants to. A lot of Sam Winchester’s life has involved letting people do what they want to, even if he doesn’t understand or approve. Castiel supposes that, set against some of the things John and then Dean Winchester have done, letting a seraph prepare a meal is not something to worry about.

Uncapping a bottle of soda, Sam leans back against the counter and settles his gaze on the food.

“So, where’d you learn to cook, anyway?”

“Steve needed to know how,” Castiel says. 

Sam’s quiet for a while, the only sounds those of the knife against the chopping board and the soda fizzing in its can.

“Who’s Steve?” Sam asks, in a tone of voice that says he’s been puzzling over that one since Castiel answered, trying to put pieces together and produce the answer for himself. “Someone you helped? Do I know him?”

Setting down the knife, Castiel turns to look at Sam. The Winchesters both seem to prefer it when he looks at them with his human eyes, despite the fact he can see them well enough with his own, sprinkled over his true-form in the constellations of ancient galaxies. Even with the ones on his wings mostly blinded, he still sees well-enough. Sam locks onto his vessel’s eyes and offers a faint smile, his expression open. 

“I was Steve when I was human,” Castiel says. Dean must not have shared this with Sam. It is likely Dean did not find anything about human Castiel important enough to share. What was he, after all, when he didn’t even have his Grace? “When I had to leave the bunker.”

Sam’s lower lip falls, closes, falls again. His eyebrows pull together and there’s an odd light in his eyes.

“Steve?” Sam asks. It sounds like amusement. “You called yourself Steve?”

A flash of irritation burns cold-charcoal through Castiel. He suppresses it. 

“Yes,” he says. “I could hardly keep using my own name.”

“Well, no,” Sam says. He straightens slightly, the amusement fading, replaced by something that makes Castiel want to draw himself up and look as impressive as he can. “No, you were being hunted. Wise not to use your name.”

“It’s not just that,” Castiel says. His hand twitches, even though he doesn’t tell it to, and he feels the cool of the knife like a phantom under his palm, even though he doesn’t move to pick it up. 

“Then what else made you pick another name?”

And that’s the thing about Sam. He asks these questions more often than Dean, who seems to think he just…knows the answers, even when he has no idea. Sam asks, but he sounds more interested than concerned. 

“Castiel is the name of an angel, a seraph. I wasn’t an angel.”

Sam takes another drink, looking thoughtful.

“You wanted a human name for being human?” he asks.

“It wasn’t a case of wanting,” Castiel says. 

The familiar frustration wells up. He never knows how to express this sort of thing to the humans in his charge, assuming they still are in his charge rather than him being in theirs. So often, they don’t seem aware that Castiel has any struggles, any adjustments to make to his view of himself or his place in the world. 

“No?” Sam asks. “I suppose I can get that. I mean, I kept my name at Stanford and when I was living with Amelia.” 

His voice softens over her name, affection and regret mingling in the energy Castiel can feel from him. As usual, working out exactly what is causing the feelings, what they mean, is something Castiel has little confidence in.

Sam shifts, clearing his throat, and goes on.

“But I get wanting to start fresh. I suppose, what with needing to hide anyway, choosing a new name that matched your species made sense. Didn’t know you’d gone with that one, though. What made you choose it?”

“I met a Steve on the bus away from Lebanon. He was kind to me.”

That Steve gave Castiel a sandwich, a piece of chocolate. That Steve bought them both a drink when the coach stopped, hot coffee with foaming milk, that pushed out some of the chill from being told to leave by Dean. Sam doesn’t need to know about the details. 

“It’s better than Clarence,” Sam says, as though inviting Castiel to join in on a joke.

“Meg called me that,” Castiel says. He waits a beat, almost swallowing his next words, but being asked about his choice of name has brought up some of the rawness he felt when he was Steve and it makes it harder to still his tongue. “In a way, I miss her. She stayed, she watched over me.”

He knows it’s cruel to dig at someone, and that Sam has shouldered burdens most mortals never have to experience, but in the fleeting moments of sanity that year he always felt the absence of his humans, and each time he had to drag himself away from torture, each time he came for help… Now, when they have just helped him, made Rowena cure him, is a poor time to let the red-hurt surface. It does so anyway.

Sam closes his eyes, looks pained.

“Cas,” he says, his grip on the soda bottle hard enough that the skin near his nails whitens, “you’ve got to know we did what we thought was best. I mean, yeah, I told Dean we shouldn’t leave you, but I got what he meant when he said you’d be better off there, where they could take care of you. It’s not that we wanted to leave you. You get that, right?”

Castiel nods, because that seems to be what Sam wants, and turns back to chopping. He isn’t sure how many carrots they can possibly need, but better to have enough. 

“Cas?” Sam asks again. Castiel must not have looked convincing enough. “Cas, look, we never really talked about it, about when Dean, when Gadreel, made you leave. I know Dean feels terrible about it. I do, too.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Castiel says, but some soreness still pulses puce and purple in what passes for his heart. 

It was so much easier when he didn’t feel these emotions. He knows, now, that angels are far from the cold marble perfections he used to think they were, that it must have been Naomi and her kind resetting them that let the Host pretend such an illusion was reality. There are times he longs for that illusion back. 

“Hey,” Sam says, and he’s closer, so close that Castiel stops chopping and stills. Sam’s arm settles around Cas’ shoulders, his other hand prying the knife from Castiel’s hands as he’s guided around and engulfed in Sam’s arms. “Hey,” Sam says again, “I’m sorry. We never meant to leave you out alone in the cold. I’ve got you, Cas.”

He doesn’t understand why Sam is reacting this way. 

“You cry if you need to,” Sam says, “and then I’ll help you butcher the rest of those carrots, all right?”

Ah. Crying. Castiel has cried before, of course, but with his Grace in place it feels different from when he was human. He doesn’t always realize what his vessel is doing, that his emotions are leaking out so visibly. He should push Sam away, reassure him that he isn’t really that upset, it was just a moment’s weakness. He doesn’t. He stays inside the hug. There is something very comforting about being wrapped up, about having a barrier between himself and the world. He wonders where Dean put that blanket. 

“What’s going on in here?” Dean asks, and Castiel twitches. He didn’t sense Dean’s approach. “Is Cas all right?”

“Er, yeah.” Sam pulls back, his arms vanishing, and Castiel is left isolated in the light of the kitchen, tears streaking his face. “Yeah, we were just talking and some stuff came up. But we’re good. Right, Cas?”

“Yes. Yes, of course.”

And he has never really understood why he has such trouble looking at Dean when he is evading the full truth. Even with his real eyes, he can’t look at Dean.

“What kind of stuff came up?” Dean asks. 

Sam sounds reluctant to speak, but he doesn’t keep it from Dean. Castiel is glad to hear the brothers being more open with each other, even if it is with details about him.

“Cas was telling me how he learned to cook when he was human. He was telling me about why he chose Steve as a name. And, er, I was saying sorry for the times we’ve not been there. You know?”

Dean has been very kind lately, his guilt from the Mark no doubt partly fueling it, but Castiel hunches slightly at Sam’s comments. Dean often reacts badly to mentions of someone not being there, and he has reminded Castiel many times that he failed to be there for Dean, both during that long civil war and after. 

Instead of gruffness, instead of pointed comments, Castiel hears Dean clear his throat.

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Yeah, I know. Look, I’ve got this. Why don’t you go and restack some books or something?”

Sam mutters something about not being the one who ends up with huge stacks of books, but he leaves. Castiel still can’t look at Dean.

“What are you cooking?” Dean asks after a while.

“Um.” Castiel glances at the food, at the piles of chopped carrots and potatoes and the grated cheese. He deflates. “I don’t really know. I thought something would occur to me.”

“Not quite like nuking nachos, is it?”

Castiel feels like he’s been re-calibrated and it hasn’t quite worked. He can’t tell if that was a friendly joke or not. He could read Dean so easily earlier, when the man refused to be healed. He could feel the guilt and the pain coming off Dean in waves. His own mixed up feelings must be blocking him now.

“No,” he says, because it’s true. “No, it’s not.”

“You know, you could have asked for my help,” Dean says, moving past Castiel to the counter.

Castiel glances at him with several sets of eyes, including the last pair that work on the long bone of his left wing. Dean looks fairly relaxed, but the line of his shoulders says differently. Something is bothering him. Castiel hates to think that it is him.

“I wanted to do this for you,” he says. It isn’t meant to sound as sullen as it does.

Now it is Dean who sighs, resting his hands against the counter as though he intends to take over the cooking.

“This because I wouldn’t let you heal me, Cas? Because you gotta know that…that’s not something I deserve to ask for, not from you. Not after what I did.”

“Am I allowed to feel hurt that you made me leave the bunker when I was human?” Castiel asks, because he has forgiven Dean for that, he has, but the sharp, aching pain of it still reappears without his permission and the guilt he feels about it only adds to the problem. If they are going to discuss guilt, and what is deserved, then he needs to know the parameters. “Am I allowed to feel pain at being left behind when I took on Sam’s pain? Am I allowed to feel betrayal that you wouldn’t listen to me when I was fighting Raphael?” 

“What?”

Dean spins, and this time Castiel turns his human eyes to meet him. As always, it’s so much more intense than it should be. No human should be able to affect Castiel the way this one does. 

“That…Cas, that shit goes back years. You mean you’re carrying all that around still?”

“I’m an angel,” he says, even though he isn’t so sure that’s true. “Unless I am made to forget, my memories remain sharp and clear. And the few years we’ve known each other are nothing compared to how long I’ve been in existence. I don’t know how to forget it.”

“You’re not meant to forget it, Cas,” Dean says. He moves closer, and Castiel thinks perhaps he will get another hug, but Dean stops short of that and stares at him. “You just stop dwelling on it. You get that it’s done and put it away.”

“I have. I thought I had. I… Dean, you and Sam have helped me with this spell, and I am grateful for that.” And surprised. He doesn’t know that will be a useful comment, though.

“And surprised, I’m guessing.” And Dean once again demonstrates skills he shouldn’t have. “I get it, Cas. There are times we’ve been crappy to you. Hell, I wonder why you come back to me, to us, sometimes. But I’m glad you do.”

They stand in silence for longer than Castiel now knows humans are comfortable staring at each other for. It is something Dean and he have always done. 

“Glad?” he asks. Energy spikes at the thought, an unfolding of rose tinted light that almost, almost pushes away the tangled, spiked feelings he has been plagued with since the spell.

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Glad.”

The bruises on Dean’s face are mottled blue and purple, colours which could be beautiful if they were not marring Dean’s skin. Castiel still itches to wash them away.

“But you still won’t let me heal you?”

A muscle in Dean’s jaw jumps.

“It’s not about… You stayed in monster heaven to deal with your guilt. I’m just not letting you heal up the bruises. Cas, come on. It’s just… I need this.”

“You need to feel pain?”

“Not in a kinky way,” Dean says, and goes on when Castiel’s brows pull into a frown. “You, of all people, get the atoning thing. Come on, man. I beat you bloody. You. An angel. I made you think I was going to kill you and then just walked out and left you. I can’t just let you heal me now. I didn’t heal you.”

“You cared for me this time, Dean,” Castiel says. He knows he’s brought up times Dean didn’t help him only to take the other side in the conversation, but Dean often does this to him, often has him turn around what he expected. “And…I need to feel I can help you.”

It feels like an admission of vulnerability, one he hopes Dean won’t pick at. What Castiel is now, what his powers and limitations are, his role, is something he isn’t quite ready to face. 

Something in Dean’s expression clears. He nods, his lips parting.

“You need to feel like the guardian angel,” he says. “All that wrapping you up in a blanket has shaken you up, hasn’t it?”

Has it? He liked being cared for. 

“That’s why the cooking,” Dean goes on. “You once said we were in your charge. You still feel that, right?”

“That…” Castiel isn’t sure how to finish that. He stares at Dean helplessly, an uncomfortable dull orange blossoming in his core. 

“Yeah, I get that,” Dean says, as though he can possibly know what it is to have the power Castiel once had and now to struggle to find ways to help. “I still feel like I should be sticking band-aides on all of Sam’s cuts, you know? That I should make sure he eats and gets to bed and learns to talk to girls. Or boys. Whatever.” 

Dean pulls a face, runs his hand through his hair, and huffs out a laugh.

“God, you and me? We’re messed up, Cas. We need looking after, but we need to look after others, too. Look, if it makes you feel so much better, you can heal me, okay?”

That brings a flash of golden relief, swirling up through his many limbs. On his human vessel, it manifests as an upwards twitch of his lips.

“But,” Dean says, holding up a hand, “first I’m going to salvage this massacre you’ve created and turn it into a meal. Which you are going to eat.”

“I don’t-”

“Taste the food. Yeah, I remember Sam saying. Molecules, right? Tough. You can eat the molecules I make you. That’s how I feel I’m helping. You get that?”

Castiel nods, the gold giving way to light blue and jade green. 

He eats the meal Dean cooks him, watches as Sam laughs and jokes about the weird concoction it becomes, and later, with rose and jade twining through his being, he proves to himself that he can still heal Dean. It doesn’t answer every question, doesn’t settle every hurt, but his Grace soothes the edges of pain in Dean’s skin and he feels a little steadier on his borrowed feet.


End file.
